


Nova Solis

by kurth_naga



Category: Queen (Band), Smile (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drinking, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Ill add more as time goes on, Language, idk uuuhh, this is a long ass fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurth_naga/pseuds/kurth_naga
Summary: A series of imagined snapshots from the life and career of Tim Staffell, from Smile to Humpy Bong, Morgan and beyond.





	1. Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is a hell of an undertaking - a lot of this is based off information from my own research from multiple sources including personal anecdotes, every mentioned band member was a real person, some of these parts are based off photographs, etc... honestly, I'm proud of the level of detail here. But again, these are imagined snapshots based off what I think went down, and I know nothing of certain people's true personalities, but the main events are accurate to the best of my knowledge, and some of the less-important things have been changed or created for artistic purposes. I hope you enjoy, this is my own personal tribute to a man who inspires me every day to put my whole heart and soul into what I believe in, no matter how long it takes to get there. My thanks as always go to Tim Staffell and his amazing career; this fic will never be enough to express that gratitude. I just hope he doesn't stumble across this.

**23rd December 1967**

**4:50am**

"I have officially had enough. It's five in the fucking morning. Why are we even bothering with this?" Tim paced frantically up and down the green room of the Olympia from wall to wall, head in his hands and microphone still in its case. "I mean we didn't even get a soundcheck, for fuck's sake, what kind of stupid joke--"  
"Tim, that's enough. Either way, we've gotta go out there and just... get through the setlist, okay? And no amount of panicking is going to improve things." Brian May, the tallest and lankiest member of the ragtag group that called themselves 1984, was busy fiddling with his prized homemade guitar and trying not to match his bandmate's frustration.

At one o'clock in the morning, a false alarm from one of the organisers of 'Christmas On Earth' had seen the band ready to go on stage, instruments prepared, vocal warm-ups complete, and then the penny dropped: they had been called _four hours_ too early. In the meantime, Dave and Richard had decided to take naps in shifts because there was simply nothing else to do, while Tim and Brian had been rehearsing between themselves with soft acoustic pluckings of the guitar and hushed tones, eager to make sure their most important performance to date was completely flawless. But the tiredness was setting in, and no matter how many coffees they were getting from the venue kitchen, it didn't seem to be making any difference.

One of the staff members, who looked equally as exhausted as they did, poked his head around the corner. "Alright, sorry about earlier, boys, but you're on for real now. Five minutes." Dave and Richard bolted upright from their sleeping positions on the benches, Tim unpacked his microphone and harmonica and Brian gave his guitar a final tuning. They lined up outside the stage door, hearts pounding and still slightly cursing under their breaths. Brian patted Tim on the back and whispered, "It'll be alright." He wasn't so sure. Tim could practically feel the bags under his eyes.

But the knot in his stomach was still forming.

And there were no more than fifty people left in the audience.

 

**6:10am**

"Well, that was an absolute joke," Dave said as he put away his bass back in the green room, "Everyone must have just sodded off home after Hendrix and Traffic were finished, to hell with the rest of us."  
Tim put his microphone back in the case, wondering how he was still standing. In his heart of hearts, he hadn't expected this event to be anything special. They hadn't even been listed on the posters, only the tiny paper programmes in small print on the last page like an afterthought. Despite the fact the turnout had been less than ideal, he still fully held in himself the belief that if you're going to do something you love, you put your heart and soul into it no matter what - but his vocal cords were shredded as a result and he could barely speak. He coughed into his sleeve and slung his scarf around his neck. "Not much we can do about that. I think we still did well, despite the circumstances." Brian said, ever the diplomat in any situation, already packed and ready to finally go home, his unruly mop of dark brown hair obscuring his eyes. "Bri, it was a shambles and you know it. We've done better than that at Wandsworth rowing club. The best thing to happen tonight was Hendrix asking me which way to the stage." Tim said, impatiently waiting for the secondary guitarist, John, to get a move on and finish packing his instrument away. Brian rolled his eyes.

"Everyone ready?" Brian said, and the band stumbled towards the exit. "Don't forget to pick up the booking fee, Tim." He gestured to the vocalist, who was too tired to be argumentative and just nodded instead.

"Stolen? What do you mean it's been _stolen_?"  
"Well, it's not here, and nobody else knows where it's gone, I checked in the back office, so I'd wager it's been stolen. I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do." The timid woman behind the counter said, shrugging her shoulders at Tim as he raged internally and realised there was no point in kicking up a fuss. She adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses and busied herself with some paperwork. She was right, there was nothing to be done, but it felt like a bit of a kick in the teeth after the fiasco with the early stage call and the ridiculously disappointing turnout. And besides, he just wanted to go home to his own bed and sleep the whole day away. "Alright. Thanks anyway." He left, defeated, and headed for the door where the band was waiting outside, scratching the back of his head with his free hand and yawning. The sky was still a deep shade of midnight blue in these early morning hours.

Dave, Richard and the two Johns were stood in one group, while Brian was off to the side conversing with a tetchy-looking police officer.

"Where's the van?"

The white van that the band had been using to cart their kit around for the past few months had seemed to vanish from its parking spot. "It's uh... it's been impounded. Bri's taking care of it." Richard sighed, his breath forming soft white clouds in the space between them that dissipated in the cold wind that shocked Tim to his core.  
"You what?" Tim could have broken down and cried right there in front of everyone under the sheer weight of everything that had happened, but his pride was too great to let people watch him shatter before their eyes.  
"Look, don't worry, we're gonna get it back tomorrow. I mean, we got the money back from the deposit, so we can just use that to get a taxi." Dave said, gesturing towards the vocalist.  
"Er, yeah... about that... the deposit's been nicked, apparently." Tim said, balling his fists in his pockets and trying not to let his anger overtake him.  
"As if things couldn't possibly get any worse."

 

 

**5th January 1968**

Tim paced up and down the living room of his family home as Brian watched him from the sofa with a distinctly concerned look on his face. "You're thinking the same thing, aren't you?" Tim said, tapping his lower lip with the side of his thumb as he crossed his arms and finally stopped his pacing. It was time to bite the bullet. "I hope so." Brian said, nervously fiddling with a loose strand of wool on the sleeve of his sweater.  
"We can't go on like this. That Olympia gig was just embarrassing. I want to start again." There was a silence between them, save for the incessant ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, as Brian lodged himself deep in thought and Tim stared out of the glass double doors towards the garden and sighed. It suddenly felt to him as though the garden stretched out for miles into the distance, and he would be forever walking, never reaching that perfect end and the stability he craved. "I was thinking the same. But what are we gonna tell the others?" Brian stood up and joined his friend at the doors. Tim wished he knew what he was really thinking, but he was so goddamn hard to read sometimes.  
"I dunno... we just tell them we've had enough and we're leaving the band. But make it clear that we won't stop them from carrying on, if they want to." Tim could see no other option than honesty, but he didn't have to make clear his _entire_ opinion about the whole ordeal with 1984. There had to be a simple way to let them down gently; let them know there were no hard feelings and this was just him and Brian moving on to new shores.

"When do you want to do it?" Brian said softly, watching as a sparrow landed on the rim of the stone birdbath outside. He ran a spindly hand through his dark curls.

"Tonight. It has to be tonight. Call the boys to the pub and we'll... tell them we've been thinking, and that we're not sure this is going anywhere. Okay?" His voice was starting to crack under the weight of his emotions.  
"But that's not the whole truth, is it, Tim?" Brian could feel his bandmate's exasperation as clear as the blue sky. Somewhere, a crack in Brian's façade had formed. Tim had seated himself on the couch and was absent-mindedly flipping a record over in his hands, a sunlight-faded copy of Pink Floyd's _The Piper at the Gates of Dawn_. He wished the concept of the entirety of the truth wasn't so important to everyone. Sometimes, white lies even spared their hardships.  
"It doesn't have to be complicated. It's like we said, we won't stop them from continuing, it just won't be with us in the picture." Tim lay the record down on the stained coffee table and leaned his elbows on his knees, resting his chin on his hands and realising he probably should have shaved that morning.

"Alright. Short and sweet."

 

 

** 7th January 1968 **

Tim tapped the pencil against the empty notepad as he sat opposite Brian at the family dining table, listening to his mother's tuneful humming in the living room next door. "Well, I've got no ideas to speak of, dunno about you." Tim said, leaning back in his chair and shrugging. Brian sighed.  
"I think we should maybe consider at least forming a band first and fitting the name to the entire setup, rather than pitching a concept that might not even be all that coherent. See what I mean?" Brian flipped his own pencil over and over in his fingers as Tim gave him a tired look.  
"I see your point. But what are we gonna do? 'May and Staffell'? That's got a real ring to it, that has." Tim said sarcastically, immediately earning himself a raised eyebrow from his friend as his mother entered with two mugs of coffee on a tea tray.  
"Thanks, Mrs Staffell." Brian said as he took a long drink from his cup. Tim practically downed his in one and stared at the blank pages in front of him.  
"You two sounded like you needed this. Everything alright, love?" Tim's mother said, taking a seat in the armchair in the corner next to the potted plant as she ran a finger along its long, emerald green leaf and crossed her legs. "Yeah, we're fine, Ma. Just... wrangling with band things, that's all." Whereas most guys his age would probably have been thoroughly embarrassed by their own mother butting in on his own affairs, he welcomed her support in a time when things didn't seem to be coming so easily to him. It was so different to the uncaring eyes of the gig organisers and promoters who were there just to do a job.  
"I'm sure you'll work it out, sweetheart. Don't stress too hard, or your hair will fall out like your old man's, and you don't want to be looking like a cue ball at twenty five, trust me." She said, ruffling the top of his head as Brian sniggered into his mug.  
"And I'll have none of that cheek from you, either, Mr May... wouldn't it be a shame if all those lovely locks fell out as well?" She said as she waved her finger at Brian, who immediately turned sheepish as anything, but Tim knew full well that his mother was only joking. She smiled and left the room, taking the empty tea tray and mugs with her.

A brief silence existed between them before Tim finally spoke.  
"Chris."  
"What?"  
"My old mate from school, Chris Smith. Plays keyboard. I remember he said he was interested in joining a band, but let's face it, pianists aren't exactly in high demand right now. But maybe he would do it." It was a long shot - he hadn't seen Chris in just over a year, much less talked to him, but he was sure a phone number was still knocking around in the family telephone book, and it had to be worth a try. Brian seemed impressed at least, and he gave a nod of approval and set his sights on something else. "We're gonna need a drummer, too."  
"That shouldn't be too hard... we can advertise." Funny what a single cup of coffee can do.  
"But we don't just want anyone. They've gotta be _good_." Brian said.  
"I doubt we're going to attract the likes of Ginger Baker or Mitch Mitchell." Tim replied, doodling absent-mindedly on his paper.  
Brian grinned to himself. "Someone who can play like that, then. I mean, it's go hard or go home, to be honest, and we might as well have the best. You can draw up some posters at college, right?"  
"Yep, I'll drop a stack at the Imperial front desk for you once they're done. Maybe Ginger himself will walk past and save our souls, you never know." Another raised eyebrow from Brian shot his way.  
"There's no need to be like that, Tim. But there is one other thing we're missing."

Another silence.

"Fuck. Who's gonna play the bass?"

 

 

**9th January 1968**

**12:25pm**

"How did you manage to get one of those?" Brian said as Tim pulled the new, unblemished bass guitar from the case and set it down on the rickety table of the May family home. He had picked up the bass, a close enough match to a Fender Precision, earlier in the day from a run-down instrument shop in Twickenham.  
"Er... it's not a real one, Bri. It's a Vox-made copy. Does the job, though."  
"But it looks identical."  
"I mean, I had to saw the tailpiece down a bit at college just to make it look more authentic, but the sound's all there. And who's gonna look closely anyway?" He had managed to slice his hand open on the saw by accident in the workshop and the cut kept rubbing awkwardly against the rough bandages, making him wince. For a second he thought he had gone down right to the bone, but luckily he had remembered that tourniquets were a useful thing that existed, and he had quickly tried to stem the flow of blood - but not before it had splashed all over his leftover advertisement posters, and formed into a sort of strange shape that reminded him of a toothy grin.

Brian ran his fingertips gently down the strings, and Tim felt awfully proud of himself. He still had yet to get to grips with playing the thing, but he was already somewhat well-versed in the guitar thanks to Brian, and it couldn't be that difficult to pick up. However, Tim had this awful habit of pooling all his money together with the sole intentions of buying musical instruments and records and nothing else, and the bug had well and truly bitten him this time. "I'm thinking of getting another one, too. Danelectro six-string, funny shape but it'd give us a bit more versatility, I think."  
"I won't judge your spending habits, Timothy, but your father might." Brian said as he slung the bass over his shoulder by the factory-made strap and began quietly plucking it. He'd rather not think about his father at this moment in time, so he changed the subject and hoped his bandmate wouldn't think anything of it.

"Any luck with drummers yet?"  
"Had a few interested. I was going to mention it later, but there's a guy who lives over in Shepherd's Bush that seems awfully keen to audition. He called three times last night to arrange it. I thought Mum was going to go bonkers, it was so late at night and the phone wouldn't stop ringing." Brian said, laying the bass back down on top of its case and putting his hands on his hips somewhat indignantly.  
"Guess we should give him a shot, then. When did you arrange the audition for?" Tim said, packing the bass away as careful as anything. He accidentally scratched the tabletop with one of the tuning pegs, but Brian was busy examining his watch and didn't seem to notice.

"Er... in about five minutes' time."

"You think we can get to Shepherd's Bush from Hampton in _five fucking minutes_ , Bri?" Tim internally cursed Brian's forgetfulness and grabbed the bass guitar and his coat from the back of the chair.

The two of them headed out the door and ran for the bus, Brian looking like a baby giraffe on his unnaturally long legs and Tim lagging behind on his considerably shorter ones, scarf blowing across his face as the wind rushed along the street. He didn't want to admit he was enjoying himself, the road ahead finally open and their chance at success almost in his grip - but if anyone had asked he would have told them he was going to finally make it big. They jumped onto the back of the bus as it pulled away, bursting into laughter. The bus sped away in the direction of Shepherd's Bush, towards someone who could be their saviour - towards the future.

 

**2:10pm**

After their brief rest on the bus, they had made another swift sprint from the bus stop to the auditionee's house, and were out of breath by the time they reached Sinclair Gardens almost two hours late.

"Which number?" Tim asked Brian, resting his hands on his knees and panting furiously with every breath. He made a mental note to go for a jog every so often.  
"Twenty-two. Where are we now?"  
The road was full of identical white terraced buildings, with spectacular facades and sculpted columns and wrought-iron fences that stretched around the curving street - worlds away from his own home in Ealing. He glanced at the nearest house and squinted at the door. "...Four."  
Another quick run down the road. Tim's scarf kept blowing into his face in the cold January wind and it was starting to piss him off more than it should at this point.  
Brian gingerly knocked on the enormous forest green door and the two of them stood in the cold for almost a full minute before anyone answered, wondering if it was some kind of subtle payback for being so late. When the door was finally answered, it was by a cheeky-looking kid with a mop of dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Tim's initial thoughts were mostly those of complete denial that this could be the drummer they were looking for.

"You here about the band audition?" The boy said, immediately noticing the bass guitar case hung over Tim's back.  
"Yep. Sorry we're late. This one forgot where you lived." Tim pointed a thumb in Brian's direction, and the taller man looked down at him with a dismissive glance as Tim reached to shake the boy's hand. "I'm Tim, this is Brian."  
The blonde took his hand in a firm grip and smirked, clearly trying to hold in his excitement and completely failing to mask it at all. "Roger. Come on in, make yourselves at home."

The closing of the door behind the trio mercifully cut off the cold wind from outside as they stepped into the dimly-lit entrance hallway. Roger beckoned them through to the front room, where Tim and Brian immediately noticed a distinct lack of something that was usually quite crucial for a drummer.

"You do have a drumkit, right?" Brian said, folding his coat and scarf over a wobbly wooden dining chair. Tim set his bass in the corner and nervously took a seat in one of the armchair across from the bay window. Roger positioned himself opposite him on the sofa and Tim felt as though _he_ was the one being auditioned instead - the piercing gaze of his blue eyes was ever so slightly intimidating.  
"Well, I sort of had to leave it in Cornwall, couldn't exactly fit it in my Mum's car... but I do have these." He reached over the back of the sofa and retrieved a set of two bongo drums. Tim looked over at Brian, who had sat himself down in the other armchair, and who looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Tim gave his bandmate a look that could have only meant one thing - _"Is he fucking serious?"_ But instead, he sighed, resigned himself to the stupid situation this had very quickly become, and chose to say, "Alright then. Off you go."

Roger steadied himself for a second and smiled. Kit or no kit, he was confident enough in himself to know he was going to blow them away regardless. He launched into his solo with enough ferocity to knock the entire street sideways, arms flailing about and (he was fairly sure) a ridiculous expression on his face, ignoring the equally ridiculous looks from the two men sitting opposite him, gobsmacked.

Tim had never heard anything like it. How the hell this Roger kid was able to pull such a sound from two tiny instruments was utterly beyond his understanding - the sound was reminiscent of floor toms, but he had never witnessed such a speed; such a grip on rhythm that it seemed as though he was listening to at least three people playing at once. He looked over at Brian, who was sitting with a completely dumbfounded look on his face, and another knowing glance exchanged between the two of them let Tim know that Brian was thinking the exact same thing for once: _"We hire him right now."_

Roger finished his solo with a final flourish, the palms of his hands almost red raw as he carefully placed the bongos back in their rightful place hidden behind the sofa.

"So... what did you think?"

There was nothing but an empty silence for a few long seconds.

"You're in. When can you start working with us?

 

**7:45pm**

The silence at the Staffell family dinner table was almost palpable sometimes. As Tim swallowed down the food and tried to pretend he hadn't already eaten chips with Brian and Roger after the audition, the sound of one of his mother's classical records whirled away on the turntable into nothingness.

Without a single word being exchanged, he put his empty plate in the kitchen sink and headed for the staircase up to his room, but paused at the foot of the stairs when he heard the voice of his father from the dining room.

"I just don't think he's cut out for this whole music thing, darling, I mean really... is this the sort of money-wasting you want to encourage?" Tim felt his heart sink in his chest.  
"It makes him happy, and who are we to deny him that, for goodness' sake? He can still have his career in art and make music, you know. They don't have to be mutually exclusive. As long as he's smiling, I'm happy for him." His mother's swift defence of him was encouraging, but still not enough to break down the walls of his father's disdain. He decided to stop listening, and went up to his room.

It was dark outside now, the sunset having pulled all the light away a few hours ago as he sat listening to a new blues record he'd picked up earlier that day whilst his mother read her magazines. He considered tidying his room, which was currently nothing but a mess of half-read science fiction novels, his art materials and empty record sleeves, but instead sat at his desk and stared out at the expanse of the night sky through his window. Sitting here under the stars often gave him the sense of feeling extremely small in the endless sea of space - but he thought it better to be small and insignificant than the one person upon whom the entirety of human existence hung. Better to be the brightest flash that lasts for a few seconds than a dim candle burning for nothing for all eternity.

He put a pencil to paper and began to write.

 _**I might be at a table, and suddenly I'll catch** _  
_**A fleeting vision of her crystal seas** _  
_**Or I might be standing in a crowded dockyard, far away** _  
_**Underneath the Sun I've never seen** _

In that moment, thinking of his father's words, he vowed to never again let anyone or anything stop him from doing what he loved. This was his world - it was always going to be his world.

 _**'Cause I have seen many worlds** _  
_**For what it's worth** _  
_**But I'll never see again** _  
_**The planet Earth** _  
_**My Earth** _

He paused partway down the page of haphazard lyrics, doodling various shapes in the corner of the paper. He remembered his mother's words in his tired haze - _"As long as he's smiling, I'm happy for him."_

Smile.

That was it.


	2. Doing All Right

**15th January 1968**

Smile's first rehearsal began at half past one in the afternoon, in a dingy rented practice room at Imperial College London, and Tim was already running late. He had spent far too long back in the Twickenham music shop, gazing through the glass cases at the bass guitars he couldn't afford, frustrating the shop owner with his questions and realising he might be slowly turning into Brian with every second.

As he passed through the entrance gates of Imperial, passing by the Royal Albert Hall, he never felt so out of place and wondered if everyone around him knew he didn't belong there. His faded leather jacket weighed a little heavier on his shoulders and he momentarily forgot what he was there for, until he saw Brian standing outside the back door of the practice room, arms folded and tapping his foot impatiently on the ground.

"Sorry I'm late... got a little preoccupied with a certain six-stringed bass if you know what I mean." Tim called, taking a light jog over to the room to appear as though he was in more of a hurry than he really was. "First of all, never, ever say that again. Secondly, I can't say I'm surprised. Roger's set up already, he's still fiddling with something on the snare though, and I can't work out what he's doing." Brian replied as he opened the door to the practice room and beckoned his friend inside first. Sure enough, Roger was kneeling on the floor with his head underneath the snare. Tim opened his bag and spilled the contents onto the nearby table, the papers flying everywhere, whilst Brian knelt down beside Roger and watched his workings intently. Brian poked his head up over the drumkit. "What's all that?"

"Spent some time at college yesterday working on some logo concepts. Wanted to get you guys' opinions." Tim set his Vox Fender down on the floor and unzipped the bag, retrieving his leads and plugging himself into the nearest amp. The feedback noise almost deafened all three of them for a moment.

"Where's Chris? I thought you said he'd be here today." Brian asked quietly, sitting on the table and stretching his long legs out.  
"He can't make it today, but he can do the weekend's session. I think he works most of the time, but he's not a bad keyboard player, he'll be fine."  
"...If you say so." 

"Alright, done." Roger said, seating himself on the broken drum stool and taking his first few tentative test bashes.  
"What were you doing under there?" Tim asked, turning the knobs on the amp until they reached what he thought was reasonable settings, unlike those of whoever had been using it before.  
"Tuning it. These college-owned kits are bloody awful, nobody actually takes the time to look after them properly."  
Both Tim and Brian were pretty sure they'd never seen Richard, 1984's drummer, ever working with any of the kit components in such a way -  let alone ever mention that the thing could be tuned in any capacity. Neither of them were drummers either, and it wasn't something Tim had even considered trying. Brian, who was plugged into his own amp, almost tripped over his own lead on the way to the microphones on his long legs.  
"Fair enough. We can get some stuff done, and I at least want you guys to take a look at the logos."  
"What's the idea, Tim?" Brian asked, picking up one of the pencil-drawn logos from the table and eyeing it down his nose like a curious Professor looking at an academic paper. Tim had roughly sketched out a pair of enormous red lips and white teeth stretched into a grin, with a yellow shine on the top. Some of the sketches varied, others with the name underneath and those which he thought were fairly self-explanatory, those which were crumpled up and thrown in the bin only to be retrieved again. 

"'Smile'." For all his confidence in his concept last night, he was starting to feel more stupid in front of his bandmates than he wanted to.

"So you decided against 'The Mind Boggles', then, Tim?" Brian chuckled, remembering the way Tim had reacted at his proposal the night before, and fully accepting the fact that his suggestion had not gone down quite as well.  
"'Fraid so, mate. Didn't really fancy being a skiffle band, funnily enough," Tim said as he set his instrument and microphone up, "I mean, we don't have to go with Smile, if you think something else would be better." He was never usually one to yield so easily, but if their time together was going to be as harmonious as he hoped it would be, he couldn't afford to be the only one making concrete decisions. 1984 had been a joint effort, and it showed in the fact that he had felt _everything_ crumbling when it was over, not just his own perceptions - but his bandmates' dreams disappearing along with his own. 

Smile would be different. And now it was time to start rebuilding.

"I'm happy with the name Smile if you are, Roger?" Brian said to the drummer, who was preoccupied with tapping his sticks around the kit and mumbling to himself.  
"Yeah, I like it. Punchy, gets to the point, 'we are here and we are going to make you Smile if it kills us' sort of vibes." Roger grinned far wider than was socially acceptable and lay his sticks on his knees.  
Brian furrowed his brow, and Tim laughed. "Alright, Rog... bit far..."

Tim handed out the chord sheets for 'Earth' and they wordlessly looked at each other, as if all three of them were absorbing the fact that they were, for all intents and purposes, an actual, tangible band.

"Well... I guess we'd better get started, then."

 

 

**15th June 1968**

"Chris, could you chuck us a beer? I'm still working on Fred's chords and he won't let me leave." Tim had been trying to teach Chris' flatmate, Freddie, some rudimentary guitar lines after he had been pleading for three solid days, and it was common knowledge that once you had been cornered by the odd little character from Zanzibar, there was absolutely no getting out of there. Their other flatmate, Paul, retrieved an ice-cold bottle of beer from the bucket and threw it at Tim. It hit the grass next to his garden chair and he shouted his thanks back into the house.  
"Come on Timothy, dear, this won't take long. Besides, you were the one who offered in the first place." Freddie gently swatted Tim's arm and smiled an enormous toothy grin. He half wondered why he didn't get his teeth sorted one of these days, but if it a huge sunshine smile suited anyone, it suited him. "I suppose I did... alright, I'll teach you a few more and we'll call it a day. How's that?"  
"If you say so, darling. I'm doing my best here, you know." Freddie plucked at his guitar's strings awkwardly.  
Tim adjusted his own guitar and opened his beer. "I know, Fred. I know."

Paul and Chris finally came out the back door of the house, carrying yet more drinks and a tray of uncooked sausages and burgers. "Alright, barbecue anyone?" Paul set the tray down on the garden table, as Chris immediately got to work lighting the broken-looking barbecue in the corner.  
"If I'd known there was going to be a barbecue, I'd have brought some girls." Tim said, taking a long drink from his beer. Freddie laughed. "As if you know any girls, Tim."  
"Hey! I know plenty of girls. There's Jennifer, Mary, Elaine and her flatmate, the shop lady..."  
"The old woman in the shop doesn't count. And if you bring up Jennifer one more time here today, I am going to tell her about your sad little crush and you can't stop me." Paul said, picking up a raw sausage in a pair of tongs and brandishing it at his face. Tim waved it away and was fairly certain that he was blushing deep red, hoping none of the other three would notice. He decided to change the subject, desperately trying to think of something other than the pretty art student with the long auburn hair and freckles, but thankfully Freddie had read his mind.

"Gentlemen, please. Tim's trying to teach me some guitar here, and you're interrupting. We were doing so well." He smiled, hitting an extremely out-of-tune chord and looking very pleased with himself. Chris grimaced as he lay some of the burgers onto the grill, the fat spitting up into his face as he turned to look at Freddie.  
"I'm sure he'll turn you into Hendrix in no time." Paul said. Tim jokingly showed him a middle finger and stuck his tongue out.

"Okay, play me the C chord." Freddie positioned his fingers and struck the notes, his heavily-ringed fingers scratching against the wood of the guitar. He smiled to himself when he realised it was in perfect tune for once. "Alright, try the G chord now."  
Instead, Freddie stopped and stared off seemingly into the distance, across the length of the garden. He was clearly deep in thought about something, and he sighed.

"Are you... are you sure there's really no room for me in the band, Tim?"

This had to be the fourth or fifth time Freddie had mentioned joining the ranks of Smile, but it had always been in a slightly joking tone, or a passing remark; an off-hand comment as if he didn't really mean it. But this time was different. His friend was exasperated, desperate, tired of mentioning it and tired of getting nowhere. And truth be told, Tim had never known quite how to respond in a way that was sensitive or kind enough. Freddie got on well with his bandmates - heck, he lived with one of them already, and Tim really wished there was a way to fit him in in some shape or form. "I don't know, Fred... I really don't know. We're kind of covered on all fronts, if you see what I mean." Tim wished his answer hadn't been quite so non-committal, and hoped that his friend would at least see some of his frustrations.

He couldn't decide if he was surprised or not when Freddie's face relaxed into a smile. "Darling, don't look so worried. I understand. I mean, at least I can still give you some advice, right? Then it's like I'm there with you."  
Tim was relieved. "As long as there's no makeup involved, I'm all ears."  
Freddie slapped a hand on his shoulder and laughed, his guitar strap slipping off his shoulder and making Tim wince as the headstock hit the stone paving slabs. "Timothy, how can you say that? That's the first step! That and getting you some damn velvets or something, because my God, those turtlenecks do nothing for you." Suddenly, Tim was reminded heavily of the uncomfortable, tacky stage costumes he and the members of 1984 had been reluctantly shoved into by their manager before the Christmas on Earth gig, and restrained himself from shuddering.  
"Hey! I like my turtlenecks..."  
"I'm joking, dear. But seriously, stage makeup is a thing you're just going to have to get used to I'm afraid..." 

"If you two are done lollygagging, burgers are ready." Paul said, picking up a cooked burger in his tongs and accidentally dropping it onto the concrete floor. Freddie was beside himself with laughter as he got up to help his housemate, clumsily leaning the guitar against his plastic lawn chair. Tim could hear faint mumblings of "Is 'lollygagging' even a word? Are you sure?" as he set his own instrument down far more carefully, making his way across the grass under the cloudless blue sky.

 

 

**26th October 1968**

**10:20pm**

Tim stood in front of the mirror in the green room of Imperial College's main bar, feeling like an idiot. Smile was due on stage, 'supporting _Pink fucking Floyd_ of all people', he thought to himself, in just under ten minutes, and he felt nowhere near ready. He looked ridiculous. Somehow, Freddie's influence had made its way into the minds of the band's new manager, a small and anxious young man named Peter Abbey that had been gifted to them by the Rondo agency, and now at his behest he was staring down something he barely recognised. Brian, Roger and Chris didn't look much better, clad in ridiculous velvet waistcoats and caked in stage makeup, the same as him. All he had ever cared about was whether the music sounded good and if it got people moving and feeling something, anything other than the  soulless life of the outside world and all its endless problems. Like the music did for him. Under the stage lights, in front of the crowds, microphone and bass in hand, he was a new person. Someone who wanted to make his mark on the world in whatever way he could. He wished Smile could have been the headlining act for tonight, but his mother's philosophical advice had sunk in - "Good things come to those who wait."

He picked up his bass from the open case on the central table, still impressed with how authentic he had managed to make it look every time he got it out. It would never compare to Brian's own machine, however, in all its pristine scarlet glory with its carefully-crafted sound, currently slung around the neck of an equally uncomfortable-looking Brian in the corner. Tim noticed that the guitarist also kept awkwardly glancing at himself in the nearby mirror, clearly as displeased with his outfit as he was, which was some comfort. Roger, however, was a completely different story. With almost no preparation to do backstage, unlike the tuned instruments, he was strutting in and out of the room every so often, and each time he opened the door Tim heard what sounded like an enormous gaggle of college girls making a racket about Roger being there. And he was soaking up the attention like nobody's business, parading about in a dreadful purple jacket and having the biggest delusions of grandeur Tim had ever seen. It would have made him laugh, had the girls' incessant screams not been throwing off his vocal warm-ups for the past half an hour.

Tim picked up his bass and hung it over his shoulder, taking one last look at the miniature setlist he'd scribbled on crumpled paper and beginning to have doubts about the running order - was _Blag_ too strong of an opener? Was he going to get the timing right on _Earth_? What if _Polar Bear_ was too soft a number for people to really get their teeth into?

"Alright guys, two minutes. Better finish tuning up." Pete Edmonds, the band's new roadie, called from the side door, looking far out of his depth. He couldn't have been much older than Smile themselves, with a slightly horse-like face under a messy mop of mouse-brown hair, and seemed to be permanently exhausted. Another gift from the agency, but he was the closest thing Smile had to a long-standing friend. He was good at what he did, carting equipment around and loading vans and making sure they were always prepared, and perhaps the one person they solidly relied on to ensure they were in the right place at the right time. Mostly because the agency themselves were somehow extremely unhelpful on both telephone lines and meetings in person. Part of Tim wondered if it was because they'd seen it all before: countless groups of college students thinking they were going to be the next big thing, and burning out a few months later, confined to history and fading memories, and they weren't really worth the time or effort. But as he, Brian and Roger stood at the stage door, feeling the synergy between themselves as they knew that no matter how small the job, they had to do it well. And they'd have each other right there.

"Good luck lads, smash it." Roger said, putting a hand on his bandmates' shoulders as Brian psyched himself up and Tim took his final deep breath in before the dive.

 

**11:00pm**

Tim received a hard whack around the shoulders from an extremely congratulatory Pete, who wrapped a towel around his neck and shoved him and his bass roughly in the direction of the green room. "You absolutely killed it, man. Killed it. Stone dead. God, you guys were so good."  
"Thanks, Pete..." He would have perhaps held a conversation if their roadie hadn't already busied himself with running back out onto the stage to start packing up their kit. Their set had just ended, half an hour gone in a flash, and the noises of the crowd were starting to die down in the interim between Smile and the main event. Brian and Roger followed shortly behind him, Brian almost falling over like a baby giraffe on his stick-like legs as Pink Floyd's drummer, a gaunt, mustachioed man, brushed past him in the corridor and knocked him off balance. The Red Special's headstock hit the wall and made Roger jump out of his skin. Tim couldn't help but laugh at the scene unfolding behind him as he pushed open the broken door, holding it for his bandmates. Roger immediately flopped like a ragdoll onto the faded leather couch in the corner, still severely out of breath from his enthusiastic drum solos - at one point, Tim thought he was going to fall onto him after he jumped up onto the bass drum and hit the crash cymbal with thunderous force, deafening him slightly in one ear for a moment.

As Tim set his bass in its box case and wound his amp lead around his wrist, part of him was wondering if the set had really been worth the applause they received from their audience of drunk students - his bass skills needed work, a _lot_ of work, compared to the intricacies of Brian and Roger's playing. And it was Pete's job to encourage them, to make them feel like their efforts were paying off, to keep them on the road. Had his voice been flat? Sharp? Too quiet? Not good enough--

"Tim. Earth to Tim. You in there, buddy?" Roger knocked on the side of his head and waved his hand in front of Tim's face, instantly bringing him out of his trance.  
"Wh-what? Sorry, Rog, what did you say?"  
"I said, you wanna go get a drink? Not sure I'm gonna be able to get through this night without at least six in me." Roger raised his eyebrows knowingly at the vocalist. Tim wanted nothing more than to just drink the rest of the night away. 

As the two of them made their way out to the bar, he was stopped by another hand on his shoulder as Roger disappeared through the doors in front of him. Tim turned around to see a very tired-looking Brian, who had finally agreed to stay a little longer.  
"Are you okay? You seem a bit... off."  
Tim sighed, leaning back on the stained brick wall. "Not really, no."  
"What's up?"  
"I just... I just don't know if we were good enough, Bri. I want this to be great - Smile, I mean." He was trying so hard not to let everything come out like a waterfall, but he suspected Brian was really seeing what was under the surface.  
"You've gotta get this chip off your shoulder, Tim. We _are_ good. We make it work together, we have good songs, we're gradually working our way to the top." Brian was right. His mind had been constantly floating, worrying about every little thing that had potentially gone wrong in every single performance, and he knew he should have been thinking about the positives. It was just hard to find them sometimes when he felt so lost in himself.  
"Yeah... yeah, you're right." He smiled, choosing to move forward instead.  
"Come on, this is a cause for celebration. Let's get a drink."

 

**11:45pm**

Forty-five minutes, seven songs and four beers later, Tim was really starting to feel it. Feel what, he wasn't sure, but whatever it was, he was having the time of his fucking life. He prayed he wasn't listening to the alcohol whenever someone came up to him, telling him Smile were great, that the setlist had been good, that Roger was a madman, et cetera. He was pretty sure he'd spoken to every patron in the damn bar at some point, because if being drunk made him one thing, it made him extremely sociable. And he was starting to believe in his own successes. Roger had spent the entire night with his arm around the shoulders of his surprisingly elusive girlfriend, Jo, who had brought a her housemate with her - a small, mousy-looking girl named Chrissie, who Brian had instantly taken to. Every time he looked over at their little group from ordering at the bar, he was looking at her whilst Roger planted drunken kisses on Jo's cheek and she blushed beetroot red. It wasn't something he often thought about, since ninety-nine percent of the time he was focused on his music or his art, but he missed being in a relationship. The sting of his last girlfriend, Andrea, telling him she 'couldn't do this anymore' was still there - numbed, but still there. He wasn't enough of an arsehole to take some poor drunk girl home because he was desperate and thought was out of options.

He received two more beers from the bartender, who had clearly had enough and was close to refusing him service, slid the money over the counter without bothering to check his change and stumbled back over to his group in the corner booth. Through his steadily-wavering beer goggles, he could see Brian and Chrissie talking in hushed tones, Brian's enormous bony frame towered over the tiny girl, and Roger with his arm around Jo while Chris sat there trying desperately not to look like an uncomfortable fifth wheel. He accidentally smacked his and Chris' drinks down on the table a little too hard, and the bubbling liquid spilled over the edge of the glasses, which everyone seemed to ignore. The room stopped spinning as soon as he sat down. "Have you not had enough of those yet, you two?" Roger said, as Jo planted kisses on the underside of his chin and Chris made an obscene gesture at him.  
"Nahhh... tonight I'm getting fucking _wankered_ , mate." Tim said, pushing his finger down on the sticky tabletop in Roger's direction. Chris leaned over and put his arm around his shoulders.  
"Look at all this lovey-dovey shite... makin' me sick... gizza kiss, Timothy..." Chris said, and they both burst into fits of drunken laughter in the dark pub, earning themselves some concerned looks from the bouncer near the stairs.  
"Shush... keep your voice down, I don't wanna get kicked out, arsehole."  
"We're not gonna get kicked out. If anyone's getting kicked out--" Chris hiccuped, "It's gonna be those two for practically having their tongues down each other's throats." He said quietly, pointing an accusatory thumb in the direction of Brian and Chrissie, who were harmlessly conversing on the other side of the table and hadn't heard them.  
"I'm just saying..."  
"So now what, you think you can boss me around or something? Is that it?" Chris suddenly stood up, and Tim did the same to level himself with the surprisingly tall keyboardist, forgetting he was the shortest member of the band and suddenly feeling rather emasculated. The other thing he had forgotten was how touchy Chris could be when drunk. 

"Mate, don't do this."  
He was suddenly met with a hard shove, and he fell backwards onto the alcohol-soaked carpet, into a crowd of students near the bar.  
"Fuck you. Fucking dickhead. You're so up your own arse, you know that."  
Tim felt pathetic as he lay there on the floor, unable to stand for a moment as the ceiling and walls twisted around him, and his bandmate stood over him threateningly. If he had taken so much as a step forwards his foot would be on his throat, and it terrified him. Mercifully, Roger and Brian had sprung to his aid and were busy restraining Chris, who was still spewing profanities. He was helped to his feet by a few of the students, and he watched Chris being escorted out the back door by the bouncer, kicking up a dreadful racket all the way. At least he was less likely to be the one being watched now. 

His friends sat him down on one of the booth sofas, Roger picking a piece of gum stuck to his hair as Brian brushed the back of his jacket off and the girls sat in silence. "You alright, Tim?" Brian said, the compassionate worry in his voice completely evident as Tim sat in shock. He had never been in anything close to a bar fight in all his life, and yet part of him just wanted to keep on drinking.  
"Yeah... yeah, I'm alright."  
"Deep breaths, mate. Deep breaths." Roger rubbed small circles on the back of his shoulder with his palm, and Tim did as he suggested, taking the hazy air of the bar deep into his lungs and staring into his half-empty glass. "You wanna go home?"  
"No... no, I wanna enjoy the rest of tonight. I'm not letting that wanker ruin it."  
"Trust me, it'll all be forgotten by tomorrow. You know how he just sort of... gets it out of his system, then forgives and forgets." Brian said.  
"Yeah, I think so too."

 

**27th October, 2:00am**

In a rather sensible way, Tim was pleased he had chosen to stop after his sixth beer. He knew he himself could behave questionably when really, truly drunk, and despite his earlier conflict he had managed to genuinely enjoy the rest of the night. Pink Floyd's set had finished at half past one in the morning, and the only reason they left half an hour later was because Brian was still busy conversing with... whoever that girl was. He hadn't even talked to her yet; she had been so preoccupied with the guitarist all evening that he had given up.

The weight of his bass guitar case on his back felt heavier than usual, as he hauled himself steadily up the stairs and out of the bar. He said his goodnights as Brian and the small girl headed off in one direction, Roger and Jo in another, and Tim was left standing at the entrance to South Kensington underground station on his own, the world still revolving around him in a dance of colours and city lights. He knew that when he returned home, his parents would be fast asleep, his chord and lyric sheets would still be exactly where he left them on his bedroom floor, and the moon would still be in the sky - and that was good enough for him.


End file.
